


Equilibrium

by Hyoushin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark Magic, M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, Non-Linear Narrative, Slash, Summoning Circles, Weird Plot Shit, magical au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 09:43:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3645654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyoushin/pseuds/Hyoushin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his quest for immortality, Thomas M. Gaunt captures Death, and binds it to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Equilibrium

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings!**  
>  1\. This is a Magical AU. So I did some crazy things here. 2. I came up with this half-baked idea after reading Your name on my heart and World on Fire. 3. OOC-nes, Grammar mistakes. 
> 
> I guess this is it, my first try at an HP fic, though I'm not sure about continuing this.

A child stood in the middle of a convoluted network of thin lines, long-forgotten glyphs, and sets of complex compounds of runes, all of which were inside of a wide circle. Every element had been drawn upon the floor with meticulous care. They had been researched, and studied thoroughly in ancient and miraculously preserved tomes with draining zeal.

Several hours had slipped by, but the spacious room was still loaded with residues of magical energy. A colorful mix of tiny faint lights remained, flickering and glittering like far away stars against the dark of the night. A few inches away from the circle, an exhausted young man laid on the floor, breathing heavily, as he kept the threat of falling unconscious at bay through willpower alone.

Despite the truly heavy exhaustion that weighted down his body, the surge of sudden elation the young wizard felt at realizing his evident success, was enough to revitalize him momentarily. The wizard heaved himself up until he was in a seated position. Glancing down at his bare toned chest, his crimson eyes lighted up at the sight of the runic symbol that magic had carved upon the center of his chest, like a flesh colored tattoo, at the magical peak of the ritual. It represented the permanent link that had been effectively forged.

Slowly, the child opened his eyes, and a silent gasp escaped from the lips of the wizard. The eyes of the child had the most unique shade of green he had ever seen. It reminded him of vast forests replete with healthy lush greenery, and clean neutral magic twined in unpolluted air. It was indeed an enchanting vivid green; the ever-present color of nature.

Those eyes, which were outlined with an unnatural verdant glow, stared back without blinking once. Long moments passed before the child spoke for the first time, “I must admit…this is an unprecedented magical feat. Alas, every little thing that humans do has consequences. They can be beneficial, or they can be terrible. But then again, your case is an ambiguous one at best, so I wonder….” He trailed off, tilting his head to one side, looking as if he was mentally calculating the result of a lengthy, and difficult arithmantic equation.

Shaking his head lightly, the boy resumed, “well, it does not matter, does it? Assuming that you know exactly _what_ I am and what you have done, tell me, why have you invoked my presence?”

“Yes, I know perfectly what you are,” said the wizard, “You are Death. Immortality was my objective, which I have accomplished now that we’re bound, as you can see.” The wizard gestured at the rune on his chest, while he gave a meaningful stare at the rune that was etched on a corner of the child’s forehead. The wizard refrained from showing a triumphant smirk on his handsome face. Of course he knew what he had done. He had spent seven years contriving the ritual he had just conducted while being aware of the fatal consequences that would have arisen should he have failed.

The magical being standing before him was caged in a human body, bound to a powerful magical anchor. The brilliant wizard was certain that he had finally attained what he had desired most for years. By binding himself to Death, the daring wizard, Thomas Gaunt, became immortal. The link between them would ensure that as long as Death lived, Thomas would live too. It was a beautiful solution.

(A solution that had entailed the ruthless sacrifice of seven wizards and the resultant mutilation of his own soul. Until this night, Thomas had never committed murder, and anyone else would have, perhaps, faltered at the ominous prospect of ending lives and breaking one’s soul, but to this particular wizard, everything he had to do had only been seen as vital requirements. To him, it all had been worth it.)

“My soul’s been halved in two. The other half is sustaining your body.” Thomas began to explain. “According to my research, your original form is an incorporeal one, therefore I decided to use humans in order to power the ritual, and to reconstruct a human body with a transplanted piece of my soul for you to inhabit.” All of this was recited with a pointed indifference that revealed the severe lack of conscience the wizard did not seem to possess at all.

“In other words, you have permanently bound us together through necromancy and soul magic.” The child stated, as he inspected the circle that had been used to call him forth. When he was satisfied, he looked up at Thomas, and added with a tinge of astonishment, “There is really nothing I can do…I am actually trapped. Well done.”

“Excuse me?” said Thomas as he made to stand up, the magical being had awakened in the young man a novel feeling of bewilderment with his words.

“I have existed for a very long time, young wizard, and although this is not an everyday occurrence, numerous wizards who have come before you have already tried to trick me, trap me or kill me.” His appearance of a twelve year old boy definitely made anything he said all the more disturbing; and that was without the addition of the preternatural iridescent aura that was coiled around the form of the magical being like a protective scarf.

But Thomas, being since he was a child an extraordinary kind of human, was just becoming more and more fascinated by the ruler of Death. Why Death would choose to don such an appearance, or more importantly, why did he not seem bothered by his current predicament, were one of the countless questions which were springing up from the speculations Thomas had revolving in his mind. Questions that would not stay unvoiced for long, given the wizard’s boundless curiosity, and ceaseless hunger for knowledge. “From now on we need to stay together so the magical link can stabilize itself.”

“And I gather that if it doesn’t the outcome will be a disastrous one for us both, is that correct?” said the child, his green eyes assessing the wizard.

Thomas nodded before raising an elegantly shaped eyebrow in barely concealed wonder. The change in his speech had been smooth as well as the inclusion of human-like mannerisms he had been showing so far, meaning that Death was adapting. At first, Thomas had had to take a few moments to translate in his head the Old English with which Death had begun speaking to him. Then, Death had transitioned into a combination of Middle and Modern English before he had been able to utter a suitable response. Now, he had adopted the patterns of the language that was spoken nowadays coupled with a neutral sort of accent.

“Do you have another name I can call you besides ‘Death’?” asked Thomas, ready to have the trivial details out of the way.

“As you probably know, my existence has had many an appellation throughout the centuries, and personally, I dislike all of them. Humans can be ingenious, but at times they’re just ridiculous!” The child sighed, as if resigned to a sad fate. “No offense.”

“None taken,” replied Thomas, a hint of amusement in his deep voice, “what name would like to have then?”

The child was a bit surprised at this, since he thought the wizard would name him after the first thing that came to mind, as most humans were wont to do, but instead, the wizard was giving him the option of choosing a name for himself. So, after a short while, Death answered, “Harry. Call me Harry.” This name, for some reason, meant something to Death. 

 

* * *

 

The boy watched the woman resting on the bed.

The sleeping woman was his aunt, and with her pasty complexion, skeletal frame, and senseless mutterings, the boy—named Thomas—was certain that the unfortunate illness she had would consume what little remained of herself really soon. Some baffled healers had tried to uncover what her illness was. However, all of them had failed in doing so. The nature of the illness was clearly magical but no one had been able to determine the cause, and therefore, a proper treatment.

The boy had seen with watchful eyes the nauseating way his aunt had been wasting away swiftly and patently; an omnipresent woe, which had come from an allegedly shameful past, was gobbling up the fragile rationality she had somehow managed to retain. The dispassionate thought of why Magic hadn’t already granted her long-standing death wish when she was so desperate to die, came into the boy’s mind, made a home there, and never left.

As far as he knew, she didn’t have any friends, lovers, or children of her own. She was a lonely woman living an empty and monotone life, sequestering herself in her cold and dark room like a dirty little secret, which she surely was, the behavior the boy’s family had toward her was a loud and straightforward affirmation after all. The boy had never dared to ask what she had done to be treated as if she was invisible. He supposed his aunt had disgraced the family in ways that denied any sort of possible redemption, and now she was paying the weighty price. Thomas considered the small silver ring which hung from a thin silver chain she never removed from her neck a telling clue.

Perhaps this may or may not be some form of irony, but she was the only one in their distorted family who held a discernable amount of affection for him, whereas his mother, Melie, did not even have a scrap of fondness to give. Thomas was only a boy of twelve, yet his astounding brilliance made him quickly realize several years ago that he was an unwanted child. His father, Morfin, only cared for his achievements; relying on him to dug the family out from its misery and infamy. And then, there was his spoiled older sister, Kisia, who was a beautiful but deceitful wench, and even though she was the heiress of the family, she still saw him as a rival; her jealousy being the sole fuel of the despisal she directed at him.

So, with a family he could not stand much less trust, the only things he had to hold on to were his magical prowess, his intellect, and the feeble connection he seemed to share with a terribly kind but pitiful woman. A connection that severed itself abruptly when she at last stepped into the abode of the dead.

A brief and impersonal funeral devoid of solemn sadness, silent sorrowful tears, or heart-breaking lamentations was held afterwards. In the days that followed, if a house-elf was tasked to look for young Thomas, they would find him, more often than not, standing alone before her gravestone, gazing at the engraved letters upon its surface ( _Merope Gaunt – 1960-2002_ ) as he ruminated on the lies he had been fed right from the start.

The antipathy he originally had felt toward the remaining members of his family festered into enmity as the years passed, because he would wonder, over and over again, if it would have made a difference had he discovered sooner rather than later that his aunt had been, in fact, his biological mother. But at the same time, Thomas would also think that if his real mother had not loved him enough to want to live, he would grant her death too, so he could bury her inside his mind. For he would never return to the repugnant place where she laid, forever trapped within the bowels of the earth. It was foolish. It was pointless. She had gone and—

(In spite of his thoughts, the memories he had of her would ever survive and persist.)

Death was irreversible. Love was instable.

 

* * *

 

Harry (that was his name now) was Death, or more accurately, the Master of Death. And as such his existence was pursued by a variety of common misconceptions. The most salient one was that he could give immortality. Obviously, he could not give something he did not have the power to, since a Master was replaced every few centuries. His title indicated that he only had dominion over those who were going to die, and when the right time arrived, he—as Death—would take their souls, and keep vigil during the course of their passage to the Land of Shadows, wherein all spirits dwelled.

Thus, the most unfortunate aspect of this bizarre affair may be the fact that the wizard who had summoned him had fallen under that same error.

The human body Harry was now inhabiting had the life expectancy of an ordinary wizard. True immortality could only be granted by someone who was a true immortal. That was only a small part of the immeasurable knowledge that had been passed down to him by his antecessor when he had become the next Master. Though he did not have clear recollections of whom he had been in his life as a human, Harry could not mistake the curious feeling of growing delightedness at being human once again.

The sensation of bare feet on cold floor, of magic enveloping him, of goosebumps across his pale skin and all the other little things he could not even begin to register, was undoubtedly wonderful. Much too soon Harry found himself longing to stay on in the mortal realm as long as he could, to keep enjoying the marvelous experience of having a proper body. However, that made him remember that the Sovereign of Magic had blessed this ritual, as Harry had sensed their special magical signature in the room.

So, naturally, Harry was confused. What could this mean?

The most plausible explanation Harry could come up with was that sometimes the Sovereign would assign singular Tasks to any magical being within the mortal or spiritual realm in (exasperating) enigmatic ways. The Tasks always had a main purpose which had to be identified, understood, and fulfilled no matter what.

Trust the Sovereign to make his new life complicated, because if this was a new Task assigned to him, then Harry was sure this would be the most perplexing one he had ever undertaken.


End file.
